Ageless Kings We
by deadpan riot
Summary: Before he was Reaver, Pirate King and Industrialist, he was a man searching for himself. What he found is the deviant we know, but how did he get there? This is the tale of the forever young Thief Prince, and the ageless king that showed him the way.
1. Chapter 1 First Impressions

a/n: OH MAN, NO-MAN'S LAND. First Hellsing/Fable crossover? Hell yea. Because I'm awesome like that. Or fail. The jury's still out on that one.

a/n #2: I'm going to be playing with a story within a story sort of format, so a few chapters will be like this(past and present reflections, to make things move a bit faster) while others will be in either one or the other and focusing on a specific scene(s). Something different from how I usually roll, so I thought, why not?

Full Summary: Before he was Reaver, Pirate King and Industrialist, he was a man searching for himself. What he found is the deviant we know, but how did he get there? A journey into the darkest part of the known world, where time moves sluggishly and the wilds are far more feral then Albion, he meets the creature that will show him the way. Dracula, Voivode of Wallachia, King of Vampires, teaches the young Prince of Thieves what it means to be above mortality.

a/n #3: I'm going to be hack and slashing time lines to suit my needs, though it doesn't matter too much, since Fable doesn't have a defined date(s) anyway. This will predominately be pre-Alucard, but illusions will be made to his defeat and subsequent servitude to Hellsing.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hellsing or Fable; I'm just mashing the two together for my own twisted amusement.

this: present  
_this_: past

Chapter 1: First Impressions

Summary: Reaver remembers what it was like meeting with Alucard the first time, when the vampire was still his own master, and the man that would become Reaver had yet to come into his own.

* * *

The first time they'd met, he'd been an ageless king on a decaying throne, overseeing a kingdom drenched in the blood of countless innocents and enemies alike. A ruthless tyrant with eyes that beheld the secrets of Hell, and a soul that hungered for more. The memory of that first encounter still sent a shiver down Reaver's spine, the way those crimson eyes had looked past what was presented to the very core of his being…

_The trek that led him to the kingdom he had sought for years had not been an easy one. Mountain ranges and boundless forests, untamed wildernesses that had defied his very humanity with a harshness that was both humbling and infuriating. Creatures the likes of which he had never seen, even in his darkest imaginings, had lingered in every shadow, watching him, looking down on him in the way of creatures who knew nothing of humanity, and didn't care. His guides had fallen, his horses slain one by one, but still he pressed on, determination taking up residence in his mind like a fever. And then, as if the endless hardships had all been a lie, he found himself stumbling into a village with the first rays of dawn._

The village he could still recall with startling clarity was no more, he knew, much as all the other's of it's ilk he'd watched rise and fall. It, along with it's kingdom, had fallen to the hands of time, neglect, and a superstition that wasn't as complete bollocks as most assumed it was. It's corpse still lingered, still cast the country with a shadow that was like the most stubborn of stains in fine silk. Monsters still lingered true, in greater numbers than those of the less time-warped areas, but the devil that had presided over them was long gone.

_The village, though small, was large by the standards of this forgotten place in time. The people pale and mistrusting, doubly so towards strangers. He knew his appearance didn't help matters, filthy and woebegone as he was. Once fine garments torn and stained with blood, mud, and god knew what else, hair and beard unkempt and tangled. Word had spread quickly of the wild man that had appeared from the depths of the trees that bordered their home; a place that only the bravest of hunters dared to walk, and only the most foolish dared to walk at night. _

It had been centuries since he'd first heard that language, so unlike his own, and yet still it lingered in the back of his mind, waiting to dredge up nostalgia at any given moment. It had taken him longer than he would have liked to learn it properly, most of his base knowledge gathered from guides muttering prayers and curses under their breath. From the ladies at the bar that doubled as an inn he learned the formalities, his 'pleases' and 'thank yous'. From the men he learned little, too suspicious of him to offer much more than hurried greetings. That had changed when he'd made his reason for being there clear.

_Hurried whispers and gestures of protection followed him everywhere he turned. Most feared for both his sanity, and his life, while others cursed him as a damned thing. Unease snaked it's way through his gut, and not for the first time he would wonder if they __**knew**__, knew what he'd done, what he'd become. He feared them, these people, so behind his own culture, and still somehow so far ahead because of this. They could see through him in a way his own people could not, could see the hollowed out man he had become, the humanity he had sold for his own greed, his own fear. _

The name he'd given had meant nothing, to him, to them. Even if it was only a gut feeling, a paranoia, it was true: They could see through him, just as he in turn was transparent. He had been lost then, searching for something he couldn't quite put a name to. The only goal in his mind then: find the fabled No Life King.

_Despite the words of warning, and the sinister tales, he found himself on the desolate road to the castle that loomed over the valley. The setting sun sent it's shadow down from the cliffs to reach out and engulf him. The trees lining the path whispered with the passing of things he couldn't see. Had it not been for restlessness and a sudden reckless urge, he would have passed the darkness of night safely away at the inn he'd spent the last few days in. Instead, he found himself surrounded in the dead of night by a handful of men at the castle entrance._

Even then, the signs of a failing kingdom were all around him, but it did little to deter him. In actuality, he'd taken it not as a failing, but a show of strength, that a single man could rule with such a puny force of the time, he'd believed he'd made his way into the inner sanctum with his good looks and charm. Later, he would learn he was being pretentious.

_The inside of the castle was no less eerie, the extravagant tapestries and decadent décor accented with dust, spider webs hanging amidst the brackets of the sconces lining the corridors. At the center of the castle the throne room, lit just enough to bath it in shadows that moved as if of their own accord. At that time, the room itself was lost on him, the only thing his eyes could see the man lounging before him, hair wild and eyes on fire._

Although the King's appearance, like his own, had changed vastly over the years, Reaver would always have that image of him locked away, stuck just as firmly now as it had been from the start. Epitome of the warrior king, from the armor plating glinting beneath the crimson cloak, to the elegant sword at his side, bemused smirk more predatory then that of a balverine.

_He introduced himself as best he could, threw in as much flattery as his limited vocabulary allowed, then waited. The king watched him in silence, burning gaze never faltering from him for an instant. He was determined not to back down, despite the overpowering feeling demanding he run. He'd fought his way across countless continents, just for this audience, and he'd be damned if he went away empty handed._

And he hadn't. After what had felt like an eternity, the king had spoken, smooth tone putting his own accented one to shame. Somehow he'd passed whatever unspoken test had been given, the rules of which he still to this day did not know. He'd been given a place to sleep and food to eat, even a babysitter disguised as a means to educate him in their tongue. Two seasons passed, winter coming down on them with a fury only the mountains could harbor. It was after that first snow fall that things changed.

_During his stay, he'd seen little of the King, a passing greeting here and there but little more. By night he'd been confined to the castle, by day he kept company in the courtyard, disturbed by how desolate the stone palace was in the light. The first blizzard of the season hit, blocking out the sun and forcing him inside. By sunset the sky had cleared, and he found himself no longer alone._

To say he'd been startled by the man's appearance would have been an understatement, for as loath as he was to admit it, he'd nearly jumped out of his skin. Every candle he'd lit had gone out with a whoosh, leaving only a puny fire in the hearth and the light of the moon to see by. The hairs on the back of his neck had snapped to attention, and he'd turned to find the King standing before him, eyes a glow.

_A hunting expedition, he'd been informed, to earn his keep if he wished to remain through the winter. He'd agreed readily, despite the feeling that there was more to it than what was being let on. The castle had been deserted, the soldiers off who knew where, leaving only him and the Master of the house. They rode out into the wilderness in silence, the eerie quite of the forest lending the journey an air of foreboding._

* * *

What do you guys think? Anyone interested in the possibilities of Reaver and Alucard existing in the same universe? I know I am.

'Til I reappear again!

deadpan_riot


	2. Chapter 2 The Hunt

_italics_ is our dear Reaver's memories.

Chapter 2: The Hunt

_Wallachia, roughly a decade after the burning of Oakvale_

* * *

The silence of the forest was suffocating, every little noise they created magnified as it reverberated off the pines. The air was crisp, freezing his lungs as it went in, condensing magnificently as it came out. Gaps in the branches above allowed just enough moonlight to slip through, casting the world in an onyx and silver hue.

He shifted in his saddle, trying to relieve some of the discomfort in his thighs. The soft leather had been systematically sucking the warmth from him, and giving little back. The lack of movement wasn't helping, the fur lined cloak around his shoulders slowly loosing it's ability to keep the rest of him warm. He cast a glance at his companion. He could only see the man's profile from their respective angles, but the Voivode seemed quite unphased by the soul sucking cold. In fact, he looked the epitome of regality in an eerie, picturesque sort of way, but something about it seemed off. He couldn't place it, but it was nagging somewhere in the back of his mind.

Burgundy locks shifted, revealing glittering eyes that caught his own. "Cold, Thief Prince?"

The muscles in his mouth twitched as he returned the smirk directed at him. "Hardly. I've become quite accustomed to it." It wasn't a lie so much as an exaggerated truth. He had traveled through mountain ranges on his way out of Albion after all.

"Good. I'd hate for you to become _uncomfortable_ once the night sets in and the warmth of the day is completely lost."

He wasn't sure, since the language was still relatively new to him, but he could have sworn he was being mocked. Not that he would have been stupid enough to take the bait, alone in the middle of nowhere with a warlord who had a penchant for impaling people.

_Dracula had been waiting for him in the courtyard, two mares of deep brown coloring at his shoulder. As they'd mounted, he'd asked why they didn't wait for the morning to hunt, when visibility would be better. The King had turned to him, eyes glinting with moonlight and said "Because night is the time of the predator, and day is the time of the prey. Which are you, Prince of Thieves, predator, or prey?"_

His mount shifted, slowing to a sudden stop. Try as he might, the mare refused to move, tossing her head and nickering. Cursing, he looked to Dracula, only to find the man had dismounted his own defiant beast.

"We go the rest of the way on foot."

Unease prickled his skin, but he dismounted none the less, making certain his crossbow and quiver were secure. There was no way in hell he'd risk loosing the only thing that stood between him and some hungry monster's belly.

"Come boy."

He threw the man a scowl before he could think better of it. Fortunately the Voivode was already walking away, the expression lost on his back. Clearing his throat, he moved swiftly after his guide, a surge of confidence and annoyance jumping around in his gut. "I will have you know, I'm not a _boy_."

Dracula cast him a quick up and down glance. "Oh? So you are really a woman then? Hm, peculiar your country."

He faltered, blinking, his mind retranslating everything as indignation swelled in his stomach. "What, no! I'm a man, not a _boy,_ and _certainly _not a _woman_!" He huffed as his outburst was met with an eerie chuckle.

Dracula turned, in an instant directly before him. Hellfire eyes looked down into his own, breath ghosting over his skin as the Voivode spoke. "Only when you have lived longer than your lifetime will you be a man in my eyes, _Reaver of Youth_."

He shuddered as the space before him was vacated, his heart pounding against his ribcage painfully.

_The tales of bloodshed and careless depravity had drawn him in, like a moth to a flame. He found himself craving them, the rumors that came from across the mountains that spoke of the devilish man who sent all those loyal to him to their deaths. He'd sat in the pubs, a cloaked stranger, a refuge from the tragedy of oakvale. They thought him sympathetic of the horror, but the truth was far less heart warming. He'd been alone in his self created hell of ash and blood, desperately trying to once again find the path that led to himself, even though he knew it was beyond repair. Even the quietest whisper of another who could help him find his way was like the sweetest breeze of spring._

Dracula's words echoed through his mind, implications clawing their way through the darkness as he took up once again following his lead through the pines. The silence was oppressive, his footsteps sinfully loud despite the cushioning of the snow. His heart jolted nastily as his gaze fell downward, taking in the lack of footprints from the tyrant.

"_They say a demon disguised as a man dwells across the mountains, in a castle atop a cliff surrounded by untamed wilds."_

"_Aye, a king too teh boot. I 'eard 'e eats children, and locks peasants in their 'omes and sets 'em on fire!"_

"_Well, I don't know about tha', but I do know 'is ti'le is 'the Impaler' fer a reason."_

"_Well I 'eard 'e sold 'is soul to keep 'imself from bein' taken prisner after 'e los' tha' war a 'is"_

"_Wha' war? 'Asn't been a war in ages!"_

"_One me granpappy used tah tell me stories bout, from when 'e was a lad 'isself."_

His eyes floated to the broad, scarlet cloaked shoulders of the man-called-monster ahead of him. The No Life King he'd been called, in certain circles. Common sense gently questioned his intentions, his motives, his sanity really, only to find itself ignored. He'd be damned if he left empty handed, whether he came out of this adventure unscathed not withstanding.

The density of the trees thinned, a small clearing peeking through the brush. Wolves called to one another, too close to be considered in the distance. Dracula paused, motioning for him to come stand at his side.

Through the branches he could make out a lone stag, magnificent in both size and grace. Prongs more multifaceted then any he'd seen on those in the forests of his home, pelt capturing the starlight like the finest of silks. It put every creature he'd ever called prey to shame.

"Put your arrow straight through the heart, or he will flee to die where you will not find him."

He glanced over at the soft spoken words, uttered as if to a lover. A casual half glance of those hooded crimson eyes stole his breath away,

"Can you do that, _Thief Prince_?"

He swallowed around the lump in his throat, mouth becoming dry as a knot wound itself in his gut. There was something both deadly and challenging in the casual words spoken so alluringly. It was a test, he knew it was, given in that intimate way of one predator to another when the kill was so heart achingly close, but that knowledge couldn't stop the shiver that ran up his spine.

The crossbow easily found it's way into his hands, arrow placed with silent, practiced precision. He was glad to find his hands as steady as always, despite the torrent of emotion crashing against his nerve endings. Ignoring as best he could the prickling sensation of eyes on him, he took careful aim through the trees between him and his prey, waiting for the right moment.

The bow released with a twang, the noise drawing the stag's head up in their direction just in time to give the arrow a clear path to it's destination. There was no sound to signal the hit as flesh was broken; even the noise of dead weight hitting the frozen ground was smothered by the night. Bow lowering, he looked back to the King, who was eyeing him with a peculiar look and a small smile that seemed somehow out of place.

"Good, I was hoping you weren't merely all talk. Now go, claim your prey."

Complying, despite the sudden feeling of foreboding tapping at the back of his mind, he wove his way to the clearing. The coppery tang of blood tickled his nostrils as he neared the fallen animal. The snow was dyed vermillion and crimson, so too the small patch of earth peeking out near the deer's head. He could see flecks adorning the otherwise spotless tan and silver coat, the barest spattering from the initial hit. Up close the stag truly was magnificent, even in death.

He knelt, hand seeking out the arrow lodged in the beast's chest. The entirety of the shaft was buried in the thick muscle, hawk feathered vane resting snugly against the pelt. It took quite a bit of force, but he managed to pull the thing out far enough to get a decent grip on it. A sharp tug that had the muscles in his shoulder complaining found the arrow free, momentum coating his hand in still warm blood. It steamed a bit as it was cooled by the frigid air, but he ignored it, eyeing the arrow for damage.

His gaze narrowed, motions stilling as a singular melody rose into the dead night, answering calls coming from all sides. Eerier then the wolves of Albion, but too natural to be balverines, he lifted his gaze to confirm his suspicions. From the tree line before him multiple pairs of eyes swayed as their owners moved forward, a quick glance confirming they were on either side of him as well.

The wolves broke the tree line, eyes burning in contrast to their dark coats. He watched them watch him, readying his crossbow as hackles raised and muzzles parted. Within seconds they were moving, but so was he. The sounds of his bow joined those of the beasts, the twang and thud of a kill mingling with the howls and yips of the hunt.

Too soon the pack closed in, forcing him to drop his bow in favor of the hunting knife he was suddenly very glad to have. They took turns jumping at him, jaws snapping at any part of him they could reach. He dodged and rolled, swinging at every flash of fur that came too close. Blood slicked his hand, caking on his clothing and melting the snow wherever it touched, yet still their numbers were too great. At least twice the size of the wolves he was accustomed to, it felt like fending off a pack of balverines, for all the good the knife was doing.

Rolling away from the deer, two of the beasts followed, one of which he managed to down with a lucky shot to the temple. He threw too much force into removing his weapon from it's skull sheath however, throwing his arm wide to make an opening for the second wolf, who took it, hitting him hard in his exposed chest. The force had him flat on his back, giant paws crushing into his shoulders as it strained against the arm he'd just barely managed to get against it's neck. His muscles strained as the snapping jaws inched closer, slobber dripping into his face. It took every muscle he owned to swing his arm up, sinking blade into skull and brain, while rolling himself enough to dump the now dead weight into the snow beside him.

Swinging up into a crouch, he flicked his gaze every which way in expectation of an attack, only to start when he realized the beasts were no longer attacking. Their eyes were fixed on a point behind him, bodies and voices stilled.

"You're bleeding."

He jumped as Dracula's voice appeared somewhere above him, his attention slipping despite the instinct demanding it stay on the things trying to kill him. The Voivode's eyes caught the moonlight like those of the predators feet from them, fixed unblinkingly upon them. Many of them began to whine, some backing down, while others wriggled, averting their gaze and offering their throats in a show of submission. A few even went so far as to roll onto their backs.

_The guide shifted his pack, eyes glancing warily from him to the forest they where about to enter. "No, you won't find many balverines out here. But the wolves are just as bad. Big as a man with jaws that can snap a sapling in half easy. You ever get close enough to count the teeth you're either admiring a mounted head, or you're dead. They don't fear nothing. Well…" A bit of coaxing had the man reluctantly parting with superstition that he'd only ever witnessed through handed down stories. "I don't know if it's fear, but they do obey one man. They say He speaks to them, the Ageless King. Only in His territory do they dwell, and only by His blessing and command do they attack. I've heard stories of Him setting them on villages, feeding children to them as their parents look on…"_

With no visible signal they took off as one, tails between their legs and more then a few backward glances as they disappeared into the trees. Neither of them spoke as the howling faded into the distance.

The reality of the situation came back to him, the cold suddenly bitter and biting where blood and snow had soaked his clothing. The reek of death made his stomach churn, the cuts, bruises, and punctures adorning his body starting to sting as the adrenaline wore off.

"Had I not interfered, they would have torn you to pieces. How very _disappointing. _I expected much more from you, Thief Prince, your melee combat is pitiful. How _did_ you manage to slaughter your entire village unscathed? Don't tell me they were all incompetent peasants, incapable of even wielding simple farm tools against such a scrawny young child."

Those burning eyes raked over his crouched, shivering frame, making his skin crawl and the little voice in the back of his mind demand he flee. His pride, however refused to even acknowledge such an action. Fury burned away any fear he had of the being towering above him, the knowledge that he hadn't spoken of Oakvale since he'd turned his back on it's dying flames fueling it.

"How do you know about that?"

Dracula smirked. "You think referring to yourself as the Thief Prince doesn't inspire curiosity? Dropping tidbits of information to keep my curiosity, not enough to place any wrong doing on your head, but enough to make sure I recognize you as being akin to myself…" Teeth flashed as his grin split, one swift movement snaring the man at his feet by the front of his shirts, and pulling him up to eye level. "There is nothing within the walls of my castle I am not privy to."

"Yes, well, I don't know where you got your information, but you're wrong! I didn't kill them, I didn't, I-" His voice cracked, and he had to look away from the irises so resembling the hell he had unwittingly summoned.

"Oh?" The Voivode's voice lowered to a purr. "But you're the one I got the information from. It would be wise to dispense with the lies, my murderous little boy."

He winced as the fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt tightened, stretching the fabric painfully across his chest and throat. "I didn't kill the villagers, or set fire to the town, but I might as well have…"

The grip loosened just enough to make speaking easier. "Do go on."

_The stone floor was harsh beneath his knees, but at that point he was no longer truly aware of it. His body ached and his veins were on fire, his throat raw from screaming. Tears and blood stained his cheeks and shirt, the hands clutched to his chest just beginning to heal from the gouges made by the damnable seal lying before him. He could feel the skin stitching itself together, but the awe he would have felt was dwarfed by the terror that those simple words had filled him with. "Your sacrifices have been made. In exchange for eternal youth and beauty, your previous life is forfeit to Us. Be glad to know that those who you loved, and those who loved you have been able to help you accomplish your goal. From now onward you are no longer the pitiable man who summoned Us, but are instead the Prince of Thieves, for what better a title for a man who steals so truly everything from his victims?" Through blurry eyes he looked at the seal, both inconspicuous and sinister, too pained to look back at the shadowy figures he had bargained with. _

_He finally managed to pull himself together, gingerly hiding the seal on his person despite his qualms against touching it, looking up to find the ember eyed shadow kings gone. By the time he found his way back to the fresh air outside the crypt, it was already tainted with blood and ash. The blaze lit up the night for miles, leading him easily home. Oakvale had transformed into a funeral pyre, structures burning, bodies littering the streets. He rushed to his home, only to find here too he was too late. Everything was gone, every_one_ was gone, even _she_ was gone, body lying on the steps of their shared home. He clasped a hand over the lump in his pocket, the unearthly cold of the seal seeping into his pores and numbing him to the core. It was with a heavy heart that he turned his back on the only home he had ever known, leaving behind the person he had been for the past 35 years._

The grip loosened until his feet were firmly set on the ground, drawing his attention back to the Voivode. "Do not fool yourself, boy. You need not physically strike someone to be responsible for their death. You killed those people, now you have to learn to accept it. You say you left that person behind you, yet still I see him lingering here. The only thing you have forsaken is your name. This boy, this name, he is still much the person your so called 'dead self' is. Afraid. Weak. Pitiful. As you are now, you hardly live up to the expectations of your title, _Reaver."_

Fascinated, terrified, and irritated, he held his head up, gazing unflinchingly back into the eyes of the ageless king he had traveled so far to find. "Then teach me. Nearly all of the stories told of you speak as though you're some fictional demon, yet here you are. You say you're better than me? Then prove it. Teach me how to live up to my title!"

The hand slowly removed itself from his shirt, the expression on its owner's face both thoughtful yet unreadable. "Teach you…" Dracula's gaze moved between him and the blood soaked clearing, taking in the carcasses before finally settling fully on him. "Hmm, we will see. Tend to your wounds, then bring the stag back to the horses."

He waited until the Voivode had his back turned before checking to make sure that yes, his wounds had for the most part stitched themselves back together. With a sigh of distaste for the state of his clothes, he went about figuring out the logistics of getting an animal nearly twice his size all the way back to their mounts.

It was going to be a long trek, to say the least.


	3. Chapter 3 House of Straw

random note: I altered the canon for a few of the places found in fable 2, both to better suit my needs, and because hell, this is taking place before fable 2 anyway so i have a bit of moving room. I also metamorphisized a few characters and their roles in the game, just because they have yet to reveal who exactly was killed to make Reaver the Pirate King. Aaaaaand changed the way in which a few of the 'legendary' weapons exist in-world, for plot purposes. Same goes for forth coming chapters.

_italics_ is still the things that took place earlier then the regular font.

Chapter 3: The House of Straw  
Summary: Reaver sets sail for his new-found goal, and faces the first of the Pirate Kings

* * *

The ship rocked gently beneath his feet, waves lapping softly against the docks. Reaver was currently alone on the deck, leaning against a railing and watching the sun set against the exotic city sprawled out before him. His men were currently out enjoying the spoils of their work, unwittingly sowing the seed that would grow into the legend of the great Pirate King. He would join them, eventually, but for now was enjoying the sudden peace he hadn't fully realized he'd been longing for.

"You've done well for yourself, Prince of Thieves."

The pirate tensed, hand going to the hilt of his pistol even as he turned to face his unexpected guest. His gaze was met with the brilliant crimson eyes of the No Life King.

A mischievous grin slipped onto the vampire's lips as his eyes darted to the gun holster at Reaver's side. "I trust my gift has aided you well?"

_The Voivode smiled eerily at him from across the small table situated in his rooms. It was the evening before his departure from the count's kingdom, three full years since he first stepped foot within it. In that time he'd come to know the true face of the mad man he'd sought sanctuary with, standing by his side through innumerous accounts of bloodshed and pointless violence. And he'd reveled in it, once he'd managed to come to terms with his own nature. The self-titled Bird of Hermes had taken him under his wing, and now it was time for him to fly on his own._

"_Your plan is grand, Thief Prince. To become Lord of something even I cannot tame, I commend your will. I have instructed two of my men, both more than competent sailors, to aid you in your quest. They will join you once you reach the Black Sea; they will have a ship ready for your use once you arrive, you need merely look for the crimson sails baring the mark of the Dragon."_

_He had nodded, again thanking the Count. The man had chuckled softly at his words._

"_Do not praise kindness you do not fully understand boy. Were you any other, I would not find myself so giving. However, I have one more _gift_ to bequeath to you."_

_From the recesses of his cloak came a package wrapped in fine red silk, laid on the table between them. Reaver, for that was now the title he had taken upon himself much to Dracula's amusement, unwrapped the delicate cloth to reveal a fine black holster, and in it, the most beautiful pistol he had ever laid eyes on._

"_The man whom I acquired this from called it a 'dragonstomper .48'. A marvelous little piece of weaponry that I, truthfully, have little use for. You however, will not even come close to your dream if you are to remain using the relics of the past."_

_The exact details pertaining to how the Voivode had acquired the pistol were never mentioned; whether it had been a gift, or the spoils of war Reaver would never know. Yet how fitting, to receive such an aptly named weapon from the 'Son of the Dragon'._

Reaver relaxed, nodding as the Count moved to stand at the rail beside him. "Already stories of your exploits have begun traversing the lands, piquing the interest of more than a few _unsavory_ men."

"I don't suppose you'd happen to be one of them?"

A fanged grin was flashed in his direction. "Of all the men who will come to wish you harm, you will have little if nothing to fear from me, Thief Prince. To tear you down would be counterproductive. I have met the men who will demand your blood, none of which I find worthy of the titles they bestow upon themselves."

"I assume you're talking about those imbeciles who hole themselves up on some island and call themselves kings?"

"You shouldn't take them too lightly, even if they wrongly believe themselves immovable and all mighty."

They lapsed into comfortable silence, both gazes on the city blooming in the dusk.

"Meet them head on, when they least expect you. I have no doubt they will underestimate you, young and arrogant as you appear. Let that be their downfall."

Reaver glanced over at the soft words, taking note of the gaze following something he couldn't even hope to see in the dark.

_The two men, Romani he assumed, met him at the docks to welcome him aboard the ship that would be his home for the foreseeable future. Surprisingly agreeable but anything other than soft, they took him in and explained the ins and outs of sailing, an activity he'd never actively taken part in. He was rather put off when he realized he was far from being master of the ship, but the two managed to balm his ego with a few simple words._

"_Voivode Tepes has high aspirations for you, Reaver, already he hails you as the next King of Pirates! Such praise is unheard of; you must be truly skilled to have garnered it."_

_The rest of the men he was introduced to were an odd assortment, handpicked for their particular skills. He would come to learn that many of them, including the two Romani men who where captain and first mate respectively, were in fact slaves. He was rather surprised that none of them harbored any ill will to their master, or to him. In fact, they treated him as a compatriot, a brother in arms who they trusted with their backs. _

_In their time together at sea, capturing ships and raiding coastal villages, they taught him the art of wielding a sword, among other things. He rose easily through the ranks, proving himself a valuable key in their success; his ability to kill the captain with a single shot, no matter the circumstances was unrivaled. In no time he was given the title of Captain, his men loyal to a tee. In return, he treated them to the spoils of their conquests, and all the pleasure they garnered from the simple act of piracy._

"I'm rather curious, what will my becoming the Pirate King benefit you with?"

Dracula ran his hand idly across the rail before them. "You have treated my ship and my men well, riding the tides and wreaking havoc bearing the insignia of my house. Through you, I have managed to extend my influence further."

"So you're letting me conquer the seas in your place, where you can't go." Reaver chuckled. "I must admit, I was rather wary of some of the tales my men tell of you, especially the one involving your _allergy_ to running water. As ludicrous as it sounds, even I must admit it makes sense."

The count leant further against the rail, gaze falling to the water lapping against the hull. "A small price to pay, many would say, for the power I hold. Long ago, to have the sea rage against my very existence was of little consequence. But the world grows ever smaller as technology advances, and I find my borders becoming insubstantial. I am no longer satisfied with a kingdom that does not boast the whole of the world."

Reaver hummed thoughtfully, mind whirling with thoughts of conquest. "I accept your challenge."

Dracula glanced sideways at him, a peculiar grin quirking his lips. "_Marvelous." _Slipping away from the rail, the Voivode slid back into the shadows he had appeared from. "Prepare well child, the journey to your throne will not come without cost. Join your men, and make the city yours this night, for the dawn brings with it the true beginning of your trials."

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

The clang of steel and the hollow echo of gunfire grew fainter the farther he pressed on. The reprieve the tiny, poorly lit passageway allowed him was more than welcome. His once fine clothes were covered in blood, torn in a few places where he hadn't managed to move fast enough to avoid the bite of a sword. He was down to a handful of bullets, saved expressly for the men he'd come to conquer.

_The Island of the Pirate Kings had taken them months to arrive at; rumors had spread like wildfire of their advance, bringing more opposition then they should have been able to handle. Heedless of the odds, they'd destroyed anyone that dared stop them, arriving to the main fight drenched in blood and gunpowder. The gathering of pirates to eliminate them was massive, the price on their heads phenomenal. Their ship managed to hold up until it was the last afloat, bringing them ashore to the next half of the challenge, whence they met the men on shore with weapons drawn and the fire of battle in their veins._

The end of the passage was in sight, Reaver moving as quietly as he could to take the men in the other room by surprise. He paused in the shadows, just out of sight, listening.

"The boy may be arrogant, but you have to admit he's tenacious. How many have fallen to him and that crew of his?"

"Too many. "

"It shouldn't surprise yeh so; the flag they fly, do none of yeh recognize it?"

"Of course, it's the same they flew every time we met them."

"No, yeh daft ponce's, it's the mark of the No life King of Wallachia! Who knows what kind of black magic they have on their side! "

Deciding now was as good a time as any, Reaver stepped confidently from the shadows into the room. "Black magic? Oh my, no. I believe the term you're looking for, is 'skill'."

The group of men started, turning as one to face him. In seconds he'd emptied the rounds in the barrel of his gun into six unlucky heads. Dodging to the side to avoid the hail of bullets the remaining men fired at him, Reaver reloaded, firing as he rolled to his feet. He managed to take down all but three, who rushed him.

No time to reload he drew his cutlass, parrying the axe of the man closest. The blow jarred his arm, but he grit his teeth and ignored it, using the weight and momentum of the weapon to knock it aside and free the man's innards all over the floor.

The last two, wielding a long-sword and katana, were faster, slicing and dodging before he could manage to remove their limbs. Back and forth they battled, Reaver managing to hold his own despite being outnumbered. Leaping over a table he managed to draw his pistol, shooting at the man closest, catching him in the shoulder before he could fully move out of the way.

"Enough. Leave him to me."

_He stood on the rail of his ship, covering the backs of the men fighting tooth and nail on shore. The former Romani captain was perched in the crow's nest, clockwork rifle in hand, sniping the men who dared try to take the ship. Reaver reloaded, frowning when he realized how few bullets he had left. Those, he mused, would be better saved for the main event. And so he'd leapt ashore, moving through the fray to find the once first mate now quartermaster. The Romani was in the thick of the battle, but it took Reaver little time to find him. A few quick words and the man was off, calling to his men in his native tongue to start the diversion. As one they moved, and Reaver was able to slip through the enemies defenses. The last he heard of his men was the call reminding him to show Captain Dread the true meaning of his name._

Reaver turned as the two men reluctantly backed down, coming face to face at last with the Pirate King of Lionhead Island. "Ah, Captain Dread, so kind of you to show up to this little soirée!" He cocked the hammer of the pistol still in hand, cheeky smile in place.

Dread stalked slowly down the stairs leading from his chambers, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his cutlass. "You managed to survive longer then I thought you would boy, but this ends here. Maybe I'll stick you and your crew up on pikes, like that master of yours is so fond of doing."

"Master? My good man, I have no idea what you're talking about! I merely woke up one morning and thought to myself, why not become the Pirate King?"

"Well then boy, if that's the case you're in for a rude awakening. I'm a King of Pirates for a _reason_." As he spoke the sword was drawn, blade singing as it tasted the battle-ridden air. "I hope you said your goodbyes before embarking on this foolish endeavor."

Reaver only managed to cock a brow in response before Dread started the dual, rushing the Thief Prince with a swiftness that didn't match his large stature.

_The bar was cramped and poorly lit, the overwhelming scent of incense and opium choking the oxygen from the air. Their table was nestled snuggly in a corner, just far enough removed to keep their quiet conversation from being overheard in the din of the place. _

_Reaver took another pull from the opium pipe he'd 'acquired' earlier in the night, reveling in the looseness seeping into his limbs. "So I'm rather curious, these men you're setting me upon, what makes them so __**special**__ that they get the title of Pirate King?"_

_The Voivode's eyes flickered eerily with the smoke drifting between them, pupils dancing as they focused on the various shapes it formed. "I would think it would be obvious to you, that no mere mortal like the ones filing this hovel could reach such heights…"_

"_Well yes, __**obviously**__, but what I'm getting at is the __**how**__, the __**why**__, and all that." Reaver waved his occupied hand impatiently. _

_The Count's eyes narrowed, voice dropping both in octave and in pleasantry. "The Dread of Lionhead Island outclasses you both in strength and in speed. He is Master over the Wreckager, one of the last weapons of the Old Kingdom, as your people call it."_

Reaver just barely managed to block the blow with his dragonstomper, not at all liking the screech that came when the two weapons met. He was shoved mercilessly back, just managing to use the momentum to his advantage. The second his feet hit the floor he bounded to the side, cutlass coming up just in time to block another savage slash. The force jarred his arm horrifically, the understanding that there was no way he could beat the man with a blade finally sinking in.

On and on their dance continued, Reaver managing to take lead for only seconds at a time before he found himself thwarted. His sword arm was fading fast, the tingling he felt at every hit remaining longer then it should have. He knew he needed to find an opening, and find it fast.

Captain Dread laughed at the slipping mask of his opponent, easily reading the troubled emotions leaking through the calm, yet vicious front. "Had enough yet, child?" Without bothering to wait for a response he thrust his blade straight at Reaver's stomach.

The Thief Prince spun away just in time, but the odd angle he'd managed to maneuver his sword arm to gave Dread an opening the pirate was swift to exploit.

In blinding succession Dread dealt his final blows, Reaver's cutlass clanging useless to the ground ten feet away, his ass soon following it.

Pain as he'd never known erupted in his abdomen, shirt staining brilliant crimson within a matter of seconds. If he hadn't had the forethought to move his body with the hit, his insides would be nestled lovingly in his lap. Fighting through the pain he snapped his head up, ready to move, only to still at the feel of too cold metal against his neck.

Dread's smug grin followed his blade to the Thief Prince, prone at his feet. "I'll admit boy, you're a fast one, faster than many a man who's dared challenge me. But I daresay not fast enough. Any last words, child?"

Reaver met the pirate's gaze unflinchingly, mouth pursing at the indignation of his position. "Yes, actually. I'd much prefer it if you'd stop referring to me as though I were some unseasoned _lad_." A single muzzle roar rode the tail end of his words, leaving a deafening silence in its wake.

It was only after Dread had staggered backwards, clutching the hole in his throat that Reaver pulled himself to his feet. A murderous joy blossomed in his gut as the Pirate King toppled over, gasping for air around the blood in his mouth. Stalking to the downed man, Reaver placed a foot firmly on the wrist still holding the sword, waving the pistol where he knew his opponent could see it. "Did you _forget _I had a _gun_? My my, the pitfalls of _old age_." Throwing as much force into the act as he could muster, Reaver brought his boot down swiftly, a nasty snap and a soft clang signaling he'd successfully broken Dread's wrist.

Even in defeat, the Pirate Kings eyes belayed that cruel smugness Reaver had learned to define in his time with the Count. Unable to vocalize, Dread mouthed his last words up to the man that had managed to best him.

Reaver frowned, truly disturbed. However, he was a man of opportunity, and he wasn't about to let his killing of Captain Dread be interrupted by a few cryptic words and the unease they sowed in his mind. Aiming the muzzle of his prize possession between the man's ugly eyes, Reaver used the scratch tarnishing the barrel to put to rest any misgivings in his heart, and pulled the trigger.

The force of the shot instantly blew out the back of Dread's skull, kicking it up as part of the floor was taken apart milliseconds later.

Before the gore had even had a chance to properly settle on the floor, the hair bleached white and fell from the skull, eyes milking blue as cataracts consumed them; Reaver watched in fascinated horror as the man's flesh sagged, shrinking and drying as muscle and fat melted away. In mere seconds the once middle-aged, healthy body was nothing but a mummified corpse, husk decaying at a rapid pace until finally it could no longer hold together. Bones fell away from one another with nothing left to connect them, papery skin and mud colored bones collapsing into nothing more than a pile of dust.

Any feeling of victory he might have felt was nowhere to be found, dread knotting his stomach and crawling along his limbs. Reaver took a step back, gaze coming to rest on the innocent looking blade next to the pile of pirate dust.

"_Oh my, doesn't that sound __**magical**__. Now how exactly does that play into this little oust of ours?"_

_Crimson orbs flashed, momentarily reflecting a cunning intelligence that, as it usually did, cut straight through him. _

"_Everything. If you were more knowledgeable in the artifacts of the Old Kingdom, I would need not explain the sheer power such a weapon posses. Those strong enough to master such a thing, to have it accept their hand, are gifted with whatever assets that particular instrument is infused with."_

_At the covetes look threatening to overtake the thief's face, the Count cut his hopes off with a steely addendum to his previous words._

"_But it comes with a price, as all things do. In exchange for its gifts, you must lose something in return. A part of your soul, as I understand it. Consumed by the very thing that gave you it's everything."_

So many thoughts crashed through his skull, base desires clashing with his common sense. Quite gingerly, he bent to retrieve the cutlass.

"I wouldn't touch that bare handed if I were you, Thief Prince."

Reaver jumped, unable to hide his surprise at the voice that sounded behind him. Reclining on the former throne of the Pirate King, legs crossed and head resting on the half formed fist perched on the ornate chair arm, was the No Life King.

Dracula continued to gaze in feign boredom down at the thief, who had spun on his heel and put the hand that had been reaching for the sword behind his back like a child caught in the cookie jar.

"Ah yes, well, I was _thinking_-"

"About something other than our earlier discussion? Yes, I noticed."

Reaver flinched despite himself. Even when not sounding sharp, the Count's words could still cut, if he so wished it. He opened his mouth to voice his argument, but was cut neatly off in the skilled way of ruler.

"You see that pile of former man near your feet? And yet still, possessing the knowledge I imparted to you, your rash temperament gets the better of you." The eyes half hidden by unruly bangs flashed animalisticly as the words passed from his lips.

The Thief Prince cringed, protests dying in his throat. "So this-"He motioned vaguely over the remnants of Dread. "Is what happens when one 'loses a part of their soul' to Old Kingdom artifacts?"

A thoughtful look crossed the Voivode's face. "I believe so, to one extent or another. Having witnessed this most interesting turn of events, I may be able to surmise some sort of answer…"

Reaver waited patiently, having learned the hard way that he would indeed get an answer, but only after the Count had put it into words he would understand. The Thief had also learned the hard way that it wasn't always a matter of the language barrier either.

"In this particular circumstance, it would seem that, having taken a piece of this 'Captain Dread's' soul within itself, the sword extended his life span, and kept his body from death. Had you shot any other man in the throat in that way, he would have been nearly dead if not so by the time he hit the ground. Which leads me to wonder what would have been the outcome had you shot him in the head without so ruthlessly removing it from him?"

Looking down at the mess with a thoughtful sort of disgust, Reaver pulled one of his custom handkerchiefs from his coat and fanned it open with a dainty flick of his wrist. "You know, I'm not so sure I'd be keen to find out. Unless of course _you'd _like to shoot him in the head and make the nasty sword thingy angry."

Dracula made an nondescript noise , eyes following the movements of the cloth as it was folded in half and used to pick up the aforementioned 'sword thingy'.

"What I _would_ like to know, is how you've managed to make it all the way to this dreary little island with such perfect timing, despite never having seen another ship with our _particular _heading. You see, I'm a bit fuzzy, what with that interesting _agreement_ you have with water." As he spoke he pretended to admire the cutlass in his grasp, keeping his weighted words as lightly toned as he could without it sounding falsified. Not that he believed for a minute the man wouldn't see right through him.

Instead of the cold response he was expecting, the No Life King chuckled. "You think the Master of his ship cannot go aboard it without being noticed?"

Unnerved, and more than a little annoyed at the statement, Reaver turned to his tutor and cohort with a frown. "Are you telling me that all this time you've been on board with us, and never once bothered to say hello?"

The count snorted. "And by 'hello' I assume you mean come to the aid of you and your men whilst in the midst of battle?"

Reaver waved his free hand dismissively before planting it on his hip. "Semantics."

Unfolding himself from the massive chair, Dracula stood and padded calmly down to stand before the irate thief. "If I were to help you, the victories you gained would not truly be your own. I merely wished to…oversee my cause."

Despite the ill mannered thoughts lurking about in his brain, he grudgingly concluded that the Voivode, as per usual, had a point.

As the thought entered the thief's mind, the Count smiled in that knowing way of his that was both condescending, and unnatural. "Go, claim whatever spoils await you for your victory. Then once your men and ship are in proper order, set sail for Bloodstone." Clamping a hand momentarily on Reaver's shoulder as he moved passed, Dracula paused. "And I would suggest finding something proper to wrap the Wreckager in."

Reaver nodded in ascent, finding no argument when the subject of discussion was currently making the hairs on his arm begin to stand on end. "One last thing, where-"The Voivode had disappeared. "The bloody hell did you disappear to _this time_?'

* * *

The wolf huffed, and puffed, and blew the house down. Poor thing must be winded...One down, two to go. And if Reaver thought this little soire' was hard to crash, he's obviously never read the Three Little Pigs.

The person who has,

deadpan_riot


	4. Chapter 4 House of Sticks

Chapter 4: The House of Sticks  
Summary: The second of the Pirate Kings is put to the test, the Wreckager is given a new resting place

* * *

Bloodstone was burning.

Greasy flames licked at the sky, consuming the dirty hovels that passed for lodgings near the bay. The crackle of the flames intertwined with the screams of horror, the cries of bloodthirsty men desperate to save what little they had in the world. The place was a dwelling for unsavory men, and women who sold themselves night after night. It hardly looked the kind of place ruled over by a King of Pirates, and yet here it was in all its dismal glory.

And soon, it would be nothing but a charred, skeletal blemish on the coast.

Reaver shuddered, oh-so-similar memories of Oakdale's burning surfacing unbidden to his mind.

"Do not lose sight of the task at hand, boy."

The thief stiffened, turning just enough to put the count within his line of vision. As usual he had appeared from the shadows, silent as a ghost and just as eerie. Stretched out lazily on a low overhang jutting from what had once been a store of some sort, he looked quite at ease amongst the hell that was spreading around them.

"Hardly. I was merely admiring your handiwork."

Stretching, Dracula slipped gracefully to the ground, chuckling softly. "Mmm, perhaps. Or perhaps you were comparing it to your own?"

Reaver felt his face follow suit as his mind went blank, watching silently as the king stalked towards his still form. The man's half lidded eyes reflected back at him the malicious flicker of the spreading flames, creating a thrilling spike of terror to rattle in his core.

_The town of Bloodstone was still beyond the limits of his vision, but he knew they were close not by the affirmation of the quartermaster, but by the silhouette in the crow's nest. He knew instantly it was not the usual lookout, hastily making his way up the rigging to answer the unspoken summons. He'd seen neither hide nor hair of the count since the defeat of Dread, although he knew the man was on board. _

_Leaning against the short barrier that encircled the nest, the count watched the horizon, a town he couldn't yet see reflected in the man's eyes. "Set it aflame. Burn the pitiful place to the ground, and with it the memories you cling to. They weigh you down, Thief Prince. If you cannot be rid of them," Mauve orbs pinned him in place. "Make them as ash, and bury them in the dark."_

The count tilted his head to look down at him, raising a hand to trace cool fingers along his jaw line.

"Make use of this opportunity I have given you; take to heart this lesson, Reaver, or else regret it in the centuries to come." He leaned closer, purr dropping to a whisper against the thief's ear. "Eternity is a long time to bear the weight of one's guilt. Wear your sins for the world to see, or find yourself at their mercy."

His mouth went dry, unable to formulate a proper reply. Dracula pulled away, knowing look scorching him just long enough for him to feel the burn before brushing past. Reaver looked on in continued silence as the count disappeared in the wavering shadows of the unkempt street. A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth, gaze sweeping to the mansion atop the crest of the hill. Dark windows reflected the mayhem unfolding below, making it seem as though the building bore the eyes of Skorm.

Xxxxxxxxx

The mansion was strangely unguarded, all too easy to access with its unlocked door. If it wasn't for the fact that Reaver knew Wicker was there, he would have thought the place deserted. If it was a trap, it was a fairly obvious one.

Hallways dark and suffocating, they smothered the din from outside into nothingness. It was like a sensory deprivation chamber, or a tomb. He rubbed at his arms absently, adrenaline spike causing the hair on them to stand on end. The faint pop and crackle of embers drew his gaze to the only door on the first floor, unsteady light spilling between the cracks. Hand on the dragonstomper, he pushed the door open enough to slip through, hinges oiled enough to give him a silent entry. A fire crackled merrily in the large hearth, bathing the cozy den in dancing light and swirling shadows.

"Ah, so my would-be assassin has arrived. I almost thought you'd gotten lost…"

The soft voice wafted from the depths of the large chair before the hearth, angle keeping Reaver from seeing its owner. A soft chuckle, the whisper of paper against paper, and a shift in the shadows: the speaker stood, moving gracefully around the chair to face the thief. He found himself taken back when the man moved into the light; were Captain Dread had been a beast of a man, face weathered and hardened by years of violence, this Pirate King was quite the opposite. Lithe and youthful, Wicker looked more a fairytale prince than pirate; elegantly dressed, long strands of sun spun hair tied back in a loose black ribbon, he regarded Reaver with the emerald eyes of a Fey, feral, cunning, and intoxicating.

"Hm, I must say the stories that have reached my rather remote little abode don't do you justice, Reaver." Wicker set the book in his grasp on an end table, slowly circling the thief as he raked his eyes over him. "I hardly expected a pretty little boy like yourself to be Dread's usurper."

He shifted to keep Wicker in his view as the pirate moved, wary of the ease in the man's movements. It was obvious Wicker didn't think him a threat. "Yes well, I suppose I could say the same of you. You hardly look the part of a bloodthirsty Pirate King. Why, I could easily mistake you for the son of a scholar, or a high end prostitute."

Wicker chuckled. "And you look like the son of a wealthy land barren, or a farm hand. Even so, it's all just semantics, is it not?"

He flinched despite himself, the screaming of Oakvale whispering in the back of his mind.

"As it were I find myself curious about you, Thief Prince. You ride the waves bearing the crest of a self-made demon, yet are obviously neither his slave, nor his kinsman. It begs the question of what made you seek him out."

"How are you so sure _I _sought _him_ out?"

"Because he does not need to seek anyone out. Humans are drawn to him like a moth to flame, whether for good, or for evil. So tell me Prince, what great tragedy, what foolish ambition lured you to kneel before the throne of the No Life King?"

"I hardly see why it's any of _your _business."

"He sent you here to kill me for whatever fancy has taken hold of him this century, has he not? Ah, don't look at me so, I speak only the truth. In time you may find yourself in my position, when you can no longer amuse him and those demon eyes wander elsewhere." A small, bitter smile graced his face.

Reaver stiffened as Wicker came uncomfortably close, easily a head taller than he. "I'll make you an offer, little Prince of Thieves. Turn your back on the wasting king before he turns his to you; join me as a fellow King of Pirates, an equal as opposed to a pawn. I can take you places, show you wonders lost on a thing such as he…"

Vivid irises burned into his own, something swimming beneath their surface he couldn't quite comprehend. They drew him in, much as those of the count, promising things he could only guess at. Truly it was tempting.

_They stood together in the captain's quarters, he preparing for the fight ahead, the count reclining on the bed, watching. Occasionally the sounds of the crew making ready for war reached them, but for the most part they lingered in pregnant silence, broken only by the crashing of waves and the hiss of the oil lamps. The king's presence was making him irrationally nervous, not knowing the reason the man chose to appear before him twice in the abnormally long night._

"_My presence is making you uneasy."_

_He scoffed, but didn't directly refute the statement._

"_I came to judge whether or not you would require the warning I bear." Dracula paused, eyes flashing as they flitted across Reaver. "It would seem I am correct in my assumption that it would prove useful to you…" _

_He frowned, not sure exactly how to take that. But when the Voivode motioned to the space next to him, Reaver accepted the invitation. Sitting across the bed, back against the wall, he gestured for the count to get on with it. _

"_I have watched you long, boy, have seen the flickers of capriciousness that dwell in your heart. Not so surprising, being that is what brought you to me. It is that conceited nature of yours, however, that may prove the problem. If you are not careful, you will fall into playing Narcissus to Wicker's reflective stream. Like the wick of these lamps, he will attempt to draw you to him as though you were kerosene, and light you a blaze."_

_Crimson eyes glanced sidelong at him, catching the peeved expression he couldn't smother in time._

"_You prove my point once again, Thief Prince. Where you should be taking it with grace and using what I have given you to advantage, you take offense. Do not brush aside my words so lightly, to be narcissistic and fickle is not so bad, it is simply the inability to embrace it that is the undoing of most."_

_The skin of his face became uncomfortably hot, torn between wanting to look away in shame and holding his head high in defiance. He ended up settling somewhere in between, glaring at the door opposite._

_The ghost of a chuckle tickled his ear. "Do not believe in bargains you yourself would make."_

_Glancing over at the slight shift of the bed, he found himself once again alone._

Blinking once in a slow, pointed way, Reaver leaned back to fix the man with a narrow eyed glance. Sly, self-assured grin slipping in place, he let slip the derisive noise forming in the back of his throat. "Join you? As _tempting _as that offer may be," He let his eyes dance over Wicker pointedly. "I think I'm going to have to _decline_."

The Pirate King smiled sadly, turning away to watch the burning of his city through the open door of the den. "Pity." He ran a thumb along the door's edge. "I think I really would have enjoyed your company." Hand dropping lightly to the handle Wicker closed the door with a light snap, effectively cutting them off from the outside world.

Reaver waited, hand on his pistol, for Wicker to make the next move.

Wicker spun smartly on his heel, fiery eyes catching on Reaver's hand before returning to the thief's face. With a strange air of calm, he drew his own ornate pistol, long fingers stroking it lovingly before swiftly cocking the hammer and pointing the barrel at the ceiling. "A dual then, as gentlemen."

Needless to say, Reaver was somewhat thrown off. The terms 'pirate' and 'gentleman' didn't equate in his head very well. Apparently the well-mannered exterior wasn't as much of a guise as he first assumed. Drawing his dragonstomper with the same amount of care Wicker had shown, Reaver wasted no time in proving just how ungentlemanly he himself was.

Wicker barely flinched as the well placed bullet tore through his hand, dislodging the Red Dragon from his fingers. The ancient pistol landed with a soft thud on the fine carpet, the Pirate King making no move to reclaim it. Wrapping his unmarred hand around his wrecked one, Wicker stared unflinchingly into the thief's eyes as Captain Dread's final words passed his own lips, verbatim. "Beware the mouth of Choleric."

Reaver held the ethereal emerald gaze with both his eyes, and the muzzle of his gun.

The force of the bullet snapped Wicker's head back, yet somehow the Pirate King managed to keep his gaze fixed on Reaver. The thief took note of the peculiar look that crossed the dying man's features. It lasted only seconds before Wicker's knees hit the floor and his torso fell back, body crumbling into nothing far faster than Dread's had; the former King of Pirates was dust before his body could come to rest on the ruined rug.

Reaver shivered, eyes roving over the mess before the door. He wasn't entirely sure, but he could swear for that split second Wicker had looked _relieved_.

Tearing his eyes from the former man, Reaver turned back to the hearth. Curiosity was gnawing at the back of his mind, along with the same foreboding that had come with the warning both times he'd been given it. He had no idea what 'Choleric' was, nor why he should 'beware its mouth', but it was fairly disturbing none the less.

The sound of voices reached his ears, his men calling for him.

Xxxxxxxxx

The water near the docks was dark despite the slow lightening of the sky. It would be dawn soon, the fires behind him dying with the night. His men had returned to the ship, sailing around to the private dock behind Wicker's mansion. Wrapped in layers of fur and silk, the Wreckager lay innocently at his feet. The ancient cutlass sat heavily in his mind, a prize that was untouchable.

_He'd joined his men to return to the boat, only to stop in his tracks as they made the docks. The men bowed to the shadowed figure, boisterous merriment failing to reverent solemnity. Reaver waited in silence next to the Voivode, both watching in silence as the last of the men clambered into the ship._

"_Do you know what lies below these waters?" Dracula motioned to the bay directly in front of where they stood._

_He bit his tongue as the word 'sand' jumped unbidden into his mouth._

"_There lies a tomb, untouched by man for centuries. It is the ruins of what came before, now swallowed by the uncaring sea."_

_Reaver eyed the unusually dark waters thoughtfully. He wasn't really interested in getting wet, at the moment. "I hope you're not expecting me to go down there."_

"_No. It holds nothing of interest for me."_

"_Then why-"_

"_It is a lost place, a truth that the sea acknowledges, and abides by. She allows few to enter, and fewer to leave." The Count turned to look at him, making a point Reaver just barely grasped._

_The Voivode left before Reaver could ask him to cut to the chase, something solid nudging his foot as he turned to watch the man leave. Glancing down, his gaze was met with a long, familiar looking lump._

It had taken him a minute or five to put two and two together, and when it clicked, he found himself reluctant, even when he acknowledged the wisdom of the idea. There was, he figured, no better place to dispose of the cursed weapons than a place nearly unreachable. And not having to worry about some idiot getting their hands on the things was a plus. Yet still, he found himself reluctant to part with such unique items.

Of course realistically, he knew he didn't really have a choice. Though not a direct order, he was very aware what was expected of him. It was a test, both of his loyalty and his ability to let go of things that would only weigh him down.

Reaver gathered the Wreckager into his hands, the sword's aura present still even through the layers. He let the blade fall free from its prison, metal glinting nastily. He felt no love for the thing, only a sick fascination.

Holding tight to the furs and silks, Reaver let the cutlass fall from his hand into the waiting embrace of the cold water. The thief watched the glinting metal disappear into the murky depths, noting the way it seemed to float about in the current that should have had no effect on it.

He dropped the wrappings at his feet, attention turning to the Red Dragon. It was wrapped in the cloak Wicker had draped over a chair in the den, and had been stashed snugly on his person. Unlike the Wreckager, the Red Dragon was faintly warm, lacking the malice that seemed to linger in the cutlass. He couldn't use it, didn't need it, but still obstinately refused to release it into the bay.

With a last disdainful glance at the waters that had swallowed the Wreckager, Reaver retrieved the pile at his feet, subtly slipping the cloak and pistol in the folds before promptly banishing the entire thing from his mind.

* * *

Two down, one to go. Will Reaver succeed were the wolf failed?

deadpan_riot


	5. Chapter 5 House of Stone

**chapter 5: House of Stone  
**_Reaver faces the last of the Pirate Kings, alone_

* * *

Sea air raked its fingers through his hair, traces of the salty caress lingering on the fine strands. A storm would overtake them soon, clouds growing heavier and wind dancing more fervently with seeming excitement. Reaver glanced over his shoulder once more toward the island destination, shrouded in darkness and the eerie mist created by the volcano that dragged against the clouds. He was close enough now that the waves were becoming somewhat of a problem for the small boat he propelled ever onward.

_The island off southern Samarkand had been their longest journey for this cause yet, nigh impossible to find lest you know where to look. But Dracula had known, had whispered the information to Reaver to relay to the men. And so they came at last within sight of their destination. With the promise of battle at dawn, his men had retired early; that was when he'd come._

"_Are you prepared, Thief Prince, to overcome the last of the obstacles between you and your goal?"_

_The two stood at the bow, looking out over the dark waters at the looming island, all jagged edges and swaying palms. He nodded, the thrum of battle simmering just beneath his skin. "You don't expect me to wait for dawn, do you?"_

_A soft chuckle. "You've learned at last then, have you? No, I do not. For this final task, this final blow that will have you crowned King of Pirates, you must walk alone. To prevail against all odds with no one at your back, that is what it truly means to hold this title you seek. To overwhelm in numbers is no great feat, to overwhelm outnumbered is what some might call a 'miracle'."_

_And so he found himself lowered into the merciless sea, nothing between him and it but the small dinghy he would make the rest of his journey in, completely utterly alone. Atop the prow a solitary figure stood, masked by shadow save the unnatural luminescence of the unwavering gaze. _

At this distance he could no longer tell if his silent watcher still stood vigilant, though he knew it mattered little. The king could see him regardless of distance or obstacles by way of powers he could only vaguely comprehend. Sand grated beneath him, signaling his arrival and the beginning of his final trial.

The jungle was harsher than appearances had made it seem, but he was now accustomed to thick underbrush that pulled at his clothes and an unwieldy ground that had to be picked precariously over lest the traverser turn an ankle. Ear attuned to the strange sounds of the foreign realm, he managed to find his way through to the heart of the island wherein lay the towering monstrosity of a volcano.

And at its base, formed from the very rock of the behemoth, the fortress of the third and final Pirate King.

"_He is a master of the arcane arts, able to bend the very fabric of the earth to his will. The sea, the skis, the very ground upon which you walk all clay beneath his fingertips. He is the unequivocal master of his domain, and it is this domain you must tread. Do so carefully, my would-be usurper." _

The castle was warm, far warmer than the tropical climate outside its walls. The deeper within it he found himself, the warmer it became. Toes sticking together inside his boots, hair weighing damp against his forehead, Reaver entered the very heart of the place and took a moment to stop and stare in wonder.

The smooth stone structures were alight in the soft glow given off by the magma that shifted lazily where the floor ended and the volcano truly began. Here and there it leaked from shafts in the walls and ceiling, bathing the place in a perpetual eerie glow that fought to take his breath away.

"Do not fear, the Will which molds this place ensures the volcano will not see fit to expel the intrusion." The owner of the voice sat in the middle of the room, at the only table not completely covered in equipment, texts, and Avo-knows what else. Clothed in simple maroon robes and sandals, he was far from intimidating.

"Come, join me. Your quest of violence and bloodshed can stand to wait for the exchange of a few pleasantries."

Despite his discomfort at the heat and his inborn wariness, he found himself doing as bid. The Samarkandian (for clearly he was, chocolate skin and ebony locks common traits of those of the southern provinces) didn't look up as he approached, eyes dancing over the trinkets laid out before him. Reaver glanced at them curiously; they looked like-

"Knuckle bones from a balverine born into the Old Kingdom." A slight smile tilted the mage's lips. "The casting of which was common practice of little authenticity in days gone past. Only one with a grasp of the Will can truly glean anything of use from them." Long fingers scooped them up gracefully, the blue glow of the Will lines seeming to transfer to the faded etchings on each. "They told me you would come, once you'd finished with the others."

"Did they?"

"A tempest of sea riding high on crimson and ash, the son of Fire and Suffering alight on the wings of the purveyor of Blood and Shadow-the Son of the Dragon. And here you stand."

Reaver chuckled, though he was anything but amused. "And how can you be certain that I have anything to do with that lovely little prophecy of yours?"

He rubbed the bones thoughtfully between his fingers, a wry smile lighting his features. "You come armed and unannounced, a sole body from a ship large enough for many more. Lost men would come at least in pairs, a foolish raiding party in large numbers. But you come alone, a ship cloaked in darkness bearing the crest of a long-dead warmonger at your back and the fire of purpose in your eyes."

Snorting, Reaver propped a fist on his hip casually. "And how would you know? I don't think you've looked at me since I arrived, and unless you can see through rock and liquidy fire, I doubt you know what ship-"

The mages eyes shifted up to his, the sudden gaze startling. Irises so light a blue they were nearly white bore into his own, mismatched pupils unsettling in their unnaturalness. "I, much like your benefactor, do not need to look to _see_," He lowered his gaze once more to the divining bones, rubbing them each in turn once more before casting them to the tabletop.

Reaver found his eyes drawn to them, though the meaning of the odd little symbols and their placements was completely and utterly lost to him. A slight frown danced over the mage's lips. "Tell me, have the others spoken warning?"

"Beg pardon?"

Clearly his sudden unease was evident in his voice. "'Beware the mouth of Choleric', a play on a quote concerning the creation of the Philosopher's Stone. _'The Red Lion. The Green Lion. The Mouth of Choleric beware. Here is the last of the Red, and the beginning to put away the dead. The Elixir Vitae._'"

"How positively charming, I assume."

"Perhaps if you are of the mind to ask politely, I will offer some insight into your cryptic warning."

He pulled the dragonstomper not so subtly from its holster. "I've never been one for 'polite' anything, I'm afraid."

Another soft (infuriating) chuckle. "You are the Sanguine ensnared by the dream of the Choleric, warped and tainted without realizing, dominated before you could ever hope to find your feet. He will pour honeyed words from between stained lips, hiding His predators smile with tricks of light and covering His motives in tainted ideals. Beware His mouth that promises salvation from your pain and regrets, for they will only grow and fester in His care. The quote means to warn men such as He away; the message passed on by my fellows means to warn of men like Him."

"And this _Him_ you speak so fondly of-"

"The Son of the Dragon is not unknown to us, least of all the keeper of the Red Dragon Wicker. Where to others he is folklore and legend, to us he is unwavering, unending fact. This warning was not given on sheer whim, not meant solely as a last means to disarm. You should heed it well, before all is lost and you are forever trapped within His cage, lost in His sea without leeds."

A soft click signaled the cocking of the pistol's hammer. "As much as I adore your cryptic jibber-jabber, I really must insist we get down to business." Because there was no possibility what so ever that he admit the flowery 'warning' made his insides squirm.

Bones cast one last time, as unreadable to Reaver as they had been earlier yet still just as alluring. He allowed the pause, the calm before the storm, using it to ease his own frazzled nerves. As he looked on the mage's eyes flickered closed, a soft sigh escaping his lips. Words soft spoken and in a tongue the would-be Pirate King barely understood sounded very much like 'so be it.'

A swift movement that had the chair toppling and errant parchment flying had the mage on his feet. He was shorter than his would-be killer, but such was lost through the sheer power of his presence, all traces of the calm scholar erased, replaced with the Master of Will the No Life King had spoken of. He lifted the impressive ebony staff in his hand, impossible whirlwind picking up everything within its path. The end of the staff hit the ground with a bellowing finality that sent a tremor through the very volcano in which they stood.

Reaver squinted around the arm he'd thrown over his face, the wind biting and the debris a nuisance. He only caught glimpses of the mage between flying objects, long ebony dreadlocks dancing wildly as if possessed, eyes and Will lines glowing brighter than the suddenly very active magma stirring all around them. It was as terrifying as it was impressive, like a storm tearing apart the heavens and raining fury upon the land in a beautiful cacophony of light and sound.

The ground beneath his feet trembled, the ominous sound of rock colliding with rock and the hiss of detritus catching fire; a crackle as the wall to his right splintered, crack crawling swiftly upward until it reached the ceiling where it promptly expanded, crumbled, and fell. His heart stopped at the sight of slabs larger than a ship falling from on high, straight down toward them.

A flash of dark red and bright blue; the mage's hand thrown toward the heavens to send forth a means of protection. A barrier of the lightest blues appeared, creating a dome that encircled the two, glittering and sparking as the ceiling pieces collided with it, cracking and falling on either side to crash into the magma. The force sent fissures skittering through the floor, magma surging up like water around a ship hull in a storm. This too collided with the barrier, hitting high and sliding off.

He was too terrified to kill the mage lest he be crushed or melted or both, and could only watch as the staff was once more lifted high, the whirlwind that still encircled them rising as the sky seemed to darken even further, pregnant clouds pressing close and loosing impressive bolts of lightning even more deafening than the protests of the angry volcano. Rain began to fall, a torrential downpour that made the view of the sky through the barrier wavery and horrifying, all flashing lights and horrendous sounds.

Reaver returned his gaze to the imposing figure before him, glowing eyes lowering to meet his own. The blue crystal atop the staff sparked and danced with electricity, completing this image of a God amongst men painted before him.

"_He bears no name, forsaken after his acquisition of the Staff of Fury, as it is called in present tongues. He chooses seclusion and knowledge, claiming his title as Pirate King only for the pursuit of them. Although he has not held the Staff long, he is in no way lesser then his fellows. His power is great, and even I am near blind to him."_

_Reaver had scoffed, unimpressed. "Wonderful, a nameless mage we know next to nothing about, who happens to be able to control the world as a supposed God would."_

_The No Life King had smiled that cunning smile, leaving knowledge and insight unspoken but held just near enough to taunt. "Be not brash, least you find the world giving way beneath your feet."_

All around him the world fell away, crumbling one moment and rising up volatile and angry in the next. The nameless mage stepped forward, and he stepped back, until they stood near the entrance of the main chamber. Behind the approaching Will user the disarray of the main chamber was consumed in fire and crushed beneath the weight of still-falling rock, magma splashing up unto the barrier he still held, a few paltry feet behind his fluttering robes.

Reaver backed up to the barrier, the static of it tingling across his skin and standing his sweat-dampened hair on end. The Samarkandian spoke something in his native tongue, repeating, translating it in the next breath.

"Do you fear me already, usurper of thrones, play-thing of Shadows?"

The comment hit far too many nerves, his arm raising and his finger twitching before he could think better of his actions. The muzzle roar was lost in the din, the kickback of the shots the only thing bringing him to the realization of what he'd done before the blood came, oozing from the sudden hole in head and hand alike.

The mage's eyes widened slightly, staff dropping from his grasp. It hit the ground with an almighty crack of breaking stone and shattering glass, the stone adorning its top cracking, shattering. The barrier flickered then died, heat suddenly oppressive and dust and rain pelting them. A haunted smile flickered across the dying man's face, eyes closing as he spread his arms and fell backwards into the fiery waters now unchecked by Will.

Reaver winced at the untimely end. A rumble that nearly knocked him from his feet pushed all thoughts not of impending death from his mind. The sole being keeping he and the volcano from becoming one in the most brutal of ways was gone, nature quickly retaking the reins and hosting a full on coo. Magma oozed up onto the cracked stone floor, reaching for the staff. The two met, and a singular spark had the fiery death water popping and jumping in earnest.

He would have made a snarky comment (to no one in particular) about overstaying his welcome, had his throat not been constricted and his mouth not filled with ash and suffocating heat.

Declaring the staff effectively out of reach from humanity at large, Reaver turned and made good his escape, dodging and ducking as the place came down around him. He hit the forest at a full on run, caution given way to survival as rock crashed behind him, island shaking beneath his feet (that were thankfully as light and nimble as they'd ever been.) By the time he made the beach the volcano had gone into full eruption mode, magma forcing its way up and out of the summit crater in a grand display of fury, sending chunks of rock flying and sending lava and ash spewing up and out into the night.

Halfway back to his ship (a journey that had taken far longer than it should have, due to the sea's violent reaction to the eruption) he could no longer see the island, surrounded now by a thick mist generated from both the rain pouring down and the sea swallowing the overeager lava that strayed too far off the island. An occasional flash and flare of lava permeated the thick cloak, that and the distant rumble and now barely perceptible tremors the only indication something was off.

"Well done, Prince of Thieves…_Pirate King_." The voice echoed eerily near his ear, its master absent still from the dinghy but by no means out of reach, more than likely still perched upon the prow of the ship, watching the fireworks set off for his cause.

Reaver smirked, as self-satisfied with himself and his victories as he was relieved they were over. He could tack on yet another 'of' to his self-proclaimed title of King.


End file.
